Words

These Streets is a short film made by Ruaraidh at the BBC, White City.

These Streets

These streets will take your brother
Worry your mother
Make you batter one another.

These streets will trip you up – “That was funny by the way!”
Serve you up a beautiful chippy
Walk you to the bookies for the national in a hurry.

These streets will make you rich
Sow you up with a staple stitch
Sell you a shan deal fae Wee Titch.

These streets will take your heart
Make you suffer for your art
See lonely husbands cruising for a tart.

These streets will feed a fox
Leave a sleeping baby in a box
Find a way to screw your house through one of
your back window locks.

These streets in the light of day
Will help your old find their way
Come the dark of night
Leave your young drinking on that park bench with their pals
talking and remaining tight.

These streets will work you hard
Give you everything on a credit card
Then refuse your entry cause now “…you’re barred!”

These streets will lie in snow for a white Christmas at last
Sell your last Big Issue while making a start from the past
As the rich of the city go home to listen to
Katie Melua full blast.

These streets will nick you 10 million or whatever bicycles
Make pretty icicles
Leave the post op transsexual definitely not wanting her testicles.

These streets will see you crawl, Walk and then limp with a stick
These streets are a helping hand or a pool of sick
It’s how these streets are swept that makes them tick.

Ruaraidh Murray 15.01.2007

Chippy Sauce

Auld Reekie’s finest
HP Sauce? No thanks your highness
35p bag of chips, loads and loads of sauce please
That unique combination
Sauce cascades through the bag with ease
For the only chips in the nation
Consumption commences
Chip after chip they slip
The taste that envelopes your senses
Right to the very tip
The best bit at the bottom of the bag
Even the stuck brown paper tastes barry too
This ain’t no new fad
It’s chippy sauce from an old bottle of brew!

Ruaraidh Murray 01.18.2000

This Girl Must Be A Bus Driver

I just missed her
Like I used to miss the No. 35
That bus driver saw me coming
Aye you, it was me in your fucking mirror
Do you like me chasing you
Me the stupid fool
Running – the whole street had a private view
I don’t care about any rule
“I can’t stop just for you”
“Anything past the stop, the doors pull to”
Fuck off bus, think I’m daft
I’ll sail down the river on my own fucking raft.

Ruaraidh Murray 10.08.99

The Tranny Under Milk Wood Green

There’s a tranny on the tube
That’s got to be a fake boob
She’s under everyone’s stare
The Keith Richards hair
Twinkling toes
Big nose
Mascara runs from the sad eyes
Surrounded by Italian conversational cries
Red coat and a scarf of silk
Black tights and a pint of milk
Big hands buckle
Under every knuckle
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
The old proverb told her
Some sit and stare
Some ignore her sullen glare
Is her’s now a hairy Mary
Or is her John still a Thomas on a promise
There’s stubble on the chin
After a night on the gin
A dude at the end rolls a joint
No one sticks out a finger to point
My heart sits here feeling sorry and broken for itself on the Underground
Her’s is just the same as mine and yours rockin’ in the lost and found
She gets off at Wood Green
Without a scene
Scampering surprisingly femininely light
Out of sight and into the night.

Ruaraidh Murray 15.01.2008

Ally’s Undies

I was hanging out on the washing line
Minding my own business just doing fine
I’m a pair of foxy knickers
and I certainly don’t smell of kippers
No I’m fresh as a daisy
And the girl that wears me,
She drives me crazy
The jeans? They don’t get a fucking look in
I’m the one who was cooking
So anyway, it was my bra, she saw him coming
Perve from the bushes
Big jacket and no excuses
There I was dangling in the sun
Come evening I would have been dancing round Ally’s bum.
It was no hand of God I’ll tell you that
It was straight in his pocket and out the back
I tried to work out where I was going
Like in the movies but I was toing and froing
The next thing I know he’s got me in his bottom drawer
To join a pair of frillies
and a leopard skin thong that gives me the willies
The acquaintance wasn’t long
Perves hand came and it was his head I found myself on
Watching porn till dawn
Then back to the drawer
To my new friends who still remember the war.
It was the jeans and my bra
She was just jealous didn’t want me too stay
And to the jeans I was just getting in the way
They could have covered me in the breeze
But the jeans deliberately had to sneeze
I’m the perves most lucrative steal
And there I had to say goodbye to Ally McBeal
To a life time of sniff and feel.

Ruaraidh Murray 15.03.2000

Radio Rental

Am I crazy or am I mad
Does this stop when I become a dad
Loop the loop
Face in hands, hands in face
Piece from the pieces
Madness of moments
It’s me I see
Standing from a far
But from where I’m standing
I’m on the bottom landing
I know I’ve got it up top
But sometimes it seems to drop
“Keep your guard up”
But it’s the left and the rights
From ma shadow
That I’ve got to box
Will I get there
In one piece
Skin of ma teeth, for a bit of peace?

Ruaraidh Murray 15.03.2000

The Spanish Inquisition

El Toro

About this bull
Hey I’m talking to you
You the high shouldered fool
You raised aloft-
To a standing ovation
It, raised to the ground-
With speared celebration
Aye I’m talking about old Toro
Blood and guts, horns an all
He just said goodbye to tomorrow
Wee boat in a cruel sea
It’s a he, like you and me.

Quo Vardis

I’m sitting in this bar
Wall to wall like a wall flower
They sit from afar
Mobile, cigar “yeah, yeah, great”
It was a bullshead
But now it’s too late
What a stare you horse
Bring back the bull
It doesn’t talk in morse
Moo you coo
£5.50 Bloody Mary, I’m off to the loo.

Spanish for the Bar

Una cervasa por favour
That’s all you need to know
Until you want more.

Ruaraidh Murray 19.04.99

The Shadow

It was the young lad you grew up with you still loved
The shadow before me now on the street still moved
But only for his master
That cut you cannae fix with a plaster
Oh why did you have to go and die
But then you as a shadow still made me cry
Inside – that’s where they got you like all the others,
The living dead
You made your arm bed
Yours not inviting
Cold sheets, dodging lighting
“It’s cool, I’m only chasing now bro”
But you’re still rattling all the same though
My helping hand stays in it’s sky rocket
As I cry and cross the street
From that place as young lads we used to meet.

Ruaraidh Murray 20.02.05

The Bridge

I run down to the skinny bridge on my birthday
I speed up to make sure no cunt over takes me
As I start to cross over the cloudy water I’m blinded by the sunlight
You appear bounding along next to me in all your youthful might
Calling out my old nick name
Showing off, making me laugh again
But I know it’s your ghost that’s really there
When the pretty girls don’t stop to stare
We run past the rest of your new gang: the lost boys
They joke and shout but empty shells can’t make any real noise
I stop half way and see your old dreams sail down stream
I hide my tears from passers by in the sun’s direct beam
You and your knowing ‘boat race’, race on by
The pretty girls miss the bad boy making them sigh
Me and my 39 years carry on back home to bide
As you wait across the bridge with time always on your side.

Ruaraidh Murray 18.09.14

Coronet Street

The Cap and the Long Coat,
A bottle of kids booze each in hand,
Cap sucks on smoke as Long coat scans perilously for a good dry dog end
The rain spits on the endangered cobbled street
As the two uninvited guests’ night has stumbled in to disregarded sleep.
Their grey matter is as muddled as the oil in the grey puddle is fuddled.
Where have they come from? Where do they go?
I wonder if they’ve been listening to ‘Cotton Eye Joe’?
Two lonely cut figures are friends in the drink.
These streets don’t care as long as they walk on
Walk on with not a hope but in hell
Each cobble blinks, having seen it all
Every stumble trip and fall.
The Cap and the Long Coat – Ginger and Fred.
Rain twinkles on the roof tops above, as they smoulder softly forward,
toe to toe, down below,
And dance round the corner
Washed out and waved on their way.
The zombie cobbles huddle
As the oil inevitably reforms in the puddle.

Ruaraidh Murray 13.12.2007

The Party That Never Ended

The party that never ended was one long line
The party that never ended was happy hour all the time
At the party that never ended you smoked one continuous cigarette
At the party that never ended the chips were never out on the the money you bet
The party that never ended had all your friends there
At the party that never ended all the girls would stare.
Sex was on tap
Beer was free
Coke was offered from a hand under the table next to your knee.
Punches were thrown in a far away fight
Your friends were the nutter’s
Theirs didn’t get in that night.

The devil was there dressed in drag
Getting off with some girl snorting coke by the bag
Bags were not nicked and pockets not pinched
At the party that never ended
Where the record never stopped
Was it broken, I cannot recollect
I was licking some girl while she was sucking some cock.
Champagne fizzed while candlelight danced
The party that never ended was a game of chance.

‘They were nice breasts’, was what I thought,
As my mates new bird was introduced,
She hugged my pressed upped muscles in my new top,
A semi-hard erection, in my pants, her effect produced.
He returned to working back behind the bar,
As another mate bragged about his new car.
I steered the conversation to my party piece, And after that the breasts retorted that they wanted to dance to some song from Grease.
I obliged, complied, accompanied, strutting my stuff and so we declared it a tie,
returning to toast our celebrity dance moves with double sambuca’s from my mate behind the bar and his winking eye.

I fancied her like fuck,
but mates are mates and rules are rules.
But then we went for a line in the girls’ loo
and she sucked my cock while I admired ladies graffiti,
Something I thought they didn’t do.
She went first, back up the stairs,
I waited a minute and walked out to other girls’ stares and stupid smiles.

No morals, no cares,
At the party that never ended.
Weekends back to back,
Like the beer in the lit fridges were stacked.
The weekdays like the spirits just blended into one.
Here is where the party ended and so did the fun.

The problem started when I took my seat back upstairs.
And there where the breasts had been displayed next to me,
Was sat my old pal Danny in his entirety.

The problem being Danny had been dead for years,
And the daggers in his eyes were sorely felt,
As if it was that day over his body I wish I could have knelt and helped.

See Danny died on his own with no goodbyes.
And as the party that never ended went into its finale right there and then,
Break dancing was not on Danny’s agenda,
Just breaking me in kind and fucking with my mind.

Dannyy laughed his head off as the others looked at me in disgust,

The breasts went to the bar,
Tears traded sambuca,

My mate shot over the surface,
Smacked me in the pus.
I wasn’t getting far,

Danny joined in for a while,
Abba blared,
The dancing queens laid in.

The bouncers forgot my name,
Went to check the toilets again,

The glass collector, got shit tips, so he put his ha’penny’s worth, in,
With a toe poke straight to the chin.

The D.J upped the tempo with ‘Jump Around’,
Now I was being beaten up to a song I didn’t even like, well maybe just for one week,
And as ‘the party that never ended’s’ finale came to its peak,
Danny stood on the bar,
Toasting my other mate who was still going on about his new fucking car.

See Danny knew it was too late all those years ago.
And I only recognised the childhood friend in the junkies shadow.
But it was Danny as a kid that now stood on the bar.
Doing cartwheels and laughing at all the grown up drunks.
He played with the candle wax and smashed the flutes.
We were just naughty boys and had used anything for toys.
Danny had just come round to play,
But I hadn’t been in that particular day.
Wasn’t there to save him from that weirdo in the park.
And from then on Danny only played after dark.

And after the party had finished,
The glass collector swept up the fag ends and broken glass,
And the bouncers persuaded the last table to drink up and pass,

Danny offered out his wee paw and helped me up.
I was cut and bruised, crying inside,

As Danny led me from the party that had ended,
And we walked together as pals to say goodbye outside.

Ruaraidh Murray 15.01.2007

Open All Hours

My heart is a punch bag
In the past, it’s been bruised but not battered

My heart is a window
Been cracked but not shattered

My heart is a bed
Tired but made

A lamppost
Flickering but not pissed on

A train
Rolling on, not to return

A torn tennis ball
Thrown away but still wanting to be caught

A racehorse
Panting close to the rail

Old Kent Road or Mayfair
But nothing in between

A tree falling into
A dammed river pushing
The last sand bag to burst

The Yellow Brick Road
With no Dorothy

The earphone that’s not broken
Playing your favourite song

A boat with no sail
But this one still makes ripples

The tongue that wants to lick those beautiful small breasts
With stiff nipples

Sick on the floor
When it should be in the pail

A stutter
That’s still understood

An inmate on the run
From 10 years in the jail

Thunder
Road

A frame
Without a door

It’s open
Wide

Is anyone
Home?

‘This Old Heart of Mine’ is not perfect
But it beats hard for you.

To LP
Ruaraidh Murray 07.09.2014

The Weight Lifter

I can still smell you on my body
Taste you in my mouth

I see you laughing on my bed
But now it’s just your stray hairs on my pillow

Your long dark strands
Have found their way under my scarred skin

I lift weights to make you gone from my head
But I still see you through the letter box, naked in the hallway

My stomach flutters
My mouth mumbles

So I lift weights again and sweat
Trying not to think about this girl that likes to bet

Long shot
Sure thing

What does it matter
Pancakes are just made out of batter

Sweat from me
Sweat from you
Sliding
Slipping
Dripping
Me in you
As you cry out

I’ll lift weights
Until I can lift you again

Me an’ the bed bugs
Will bum about night after night

In the Wee Small Hours
We’ll be alright

Your smell on my body
Your taste in my mouth

Your name on my lips
Your grip on my heart.

To LP
Ruaraidh Murray 12.09.14

Standing in the Bath

Standing in the bath
We look and laugh

Umbrella’d by the shower
We stroke each other in our naked tower

Down in the puddle below
Our feet pal about, talking toe to toe

Black make up run’s down your face
Now your real eyes look up making my heart race

Green is the colour behind the drops on each eyelash
Warm like this rain that falls over our secret stash

Bright as air traffic control light
Bringing me home like a plane in the night

You’re locked into my frame
Like a hunter holding his game

Your body pressed up against mine
We’re lost and found in this moment of time

The shower drops hover like bee’s
The clock’s hands stop and rest on it’s knees

Through the warm rain our hot lips kiss hard together
As our feet, way down below, continue to laugh and blether.

To LP
Ruaraidh Murray 14.09.14

Message in a Bottle

There’s an ocean that separates us two
So I sent out a message in a bottle just for you

It had contained whiskey but that ran dry a lifetime ago
Made of clear glass with only the Scottish ingredients left to show

It’s been bobbing about across the Atlantic
Listened to waltz music still being played on the Titanic

This bottle’s fought pirates, polar bears, sharks and won.
Made friends with migrating sardines by the ton

At night, all alone, it’s watched the Moon, the stars, Jupiter and Mars
Dreamed it was a car, an aeroplane and stuck back behind a bar

It’s been out there looking for you for some time
How did you manage to catch a hold of it without a fishing line?

Pull out the cork, roll open the note
This has been worth the float

If you can’t read my hand writing definitely don’t worry
Put your ear to the bottle…”Do you accept this collect call from a Mister Murray?”

To LP
Ruaraidh Murray 20.09.14

Dancing in the Dark with the Lights On

I wake next to you hard and thick
You back your ass up against my brick

Your eyes stay shut as we talk in whispers out front
I lick my fingers and stroke your beautiful cunt

I force myself into your pink lips with my hot tip
As you start to get wet and I start to slip

Slowly in
Whoever said this was a sin?

We hold on to each other with all our might
And you grip around my size without a fight

“And the boys of the NYPD choir were singing Galway Bay…”
But I just said goodbye to her under the palm trees of LA

The sun shone hot in the land on the Mojave
Now I return to the land of the eternally cold porcelain lavy

I lie here alone somewhere in the middle of this silent night
My heart beats to the thought of us dancing around in my minds neon flashing light

I don’t want to count sheep as Santa takes a break at the end of my bed cigarette in hand
And Rudolf bums a smoke off him professing he’s forgotten his preferred Camel brand

But as they debate whether to fly home blind or use the Sat Nav to return to the North Pole
I call out “keep it down you two…I want to dream about the lady clown I love …Lucie Pohl.”

To LP Merry Christmas
Ruaraidh Murray 25.12.14

Hungry Years

I sit here alone listening to Sammy Davis Jnr sing low in this late night dive bar
All the rest have gone home by tube, black taxi or smallish British wonky car

I hold on to this glass of melted ice and lemon with my tickling hand
You walk down the sidewalk past local bums and yellow cabs as old skyscrapers talk to one another as they stand

Mr Bojangles plays here one last time on the Wurlitzer Jukebox
Do you know I accidentally now own a pair of your short white socks?

How I wish you could wear me like a pair of big clown shoes on your feet
Make me all sweaty and I’d still lick in between where your royal toes meet

The bar staff stack the chairs as Sammy sings “…it’s one for my baby and one for the road”
And so we continue our intergalactic dalliance and communicate heart beats through our own Morse Code

The bar is now closed but the road ahead is wide open to new nomadic land
I can actually fit your white socks on my tickling and my steady hand

As you drive I steady the wheel
Sat side by side a kiss we steal

Sometime when I drive I glance over to catch you softly asleep
Making me buzz like a beehive…your honey has got me in deep

You wake up with that smile as we look eye to eye
The sun dips once again from the otherworldly sky

I keep your knickers still where you left them in my pocket just like one of those gold lockets
Do you want to be a pyromaniac like me, build big bonfires and set off a bunch of bottle rockets?

To LP
Ruaraidh Murray 04.01.15

Twin Flames

Yesterdays newspapers are scrunched up into balls of tumbleweed
Pieces of wood are scattered on top lookin like where a one-horse town once stood

The woodsman’s rough edged hands steadily light the lucky match
It’s drawn to touching the paper, the pyromaniac scratching that old itch

The first small flame on a tumbleweed of Daily Record appears
The same flame that mankind made in his Fred Flintstone years

The match hops along to touch the front page of a rolled up Times
A second flame rises from Sunday’s forgotten headlines

The Woodsman closes the stove’s small front door
Leaving the two flames to say hello to one another before they roar

Dancing in and out of the tumbleweed toe to toe they go
Now pushing and pulling they start to fight, down and dirty and slow

These two flames, like attracting like, now scratching and a biting become one
It’s a blazing cowboy brawl as they raise hell through this smoking one horse town

A wandering mexican band trott on to set striking up and playing faster
But it’s too late to move from impending sizzling sombrero disaster

The old Woodsman puts on some fuel shutting the stove door tight
Leaving the twin flames to burn in their ring of fire from day into night

So as the bed of golden embers settle safe from harm
The two naked flames lie down in each others arms

And just in case you were wondering if they’ll be back again in the morning
The old Woodsman shuffles through to the stove with his coffee and matches yawning.

To LP
Ruaraidh Murray 23.01.15

Deep Space Valentine

My love for you is as deep as space and time
As constant as the Viking’s North Star
As lucky as the lost sock that’s found it’s match in machine No.9
As wild as a wolf on the plains of Nebraska howling off far

Your name is never far from being mouthed on my lips
I hunger for your taste, your sweat and smell
Your beauty pounds my blood from my heart to my rough finger tips
I’m here to hunt you down and make a wish in your well

Your panther-like slender shoulders I hold down but handle with care
Your peach and your pear are more beautiful than any Californian sun
My Snow White with deep space black hair
Your green eyes have had me from day one.

To LP
Ruaraidh Murray 14.02.15

3465 Miles

I wait here ‘In the Midnight Hour’, like Wilson Picket, and try to write something romantic…
Do you know it’s 3465 miles from you to me across the Atlantic?

This morning I lay here sweaty and hot on the stone cold floor after dodging the tourists on my Thames River run
The neighbours heard me laughing like a looney but I was thinking of you sitting on my chest, poking fun

Now as I lie here in bed after dark, your ghost lies naked on top
Your ‘stop traffic’ stare has me pined down, my boxer shorts I pull off and drop

Your ghost passes me the picture of you naked under the covers in your hot house bed
I feel myself hard and your ghost empties my pencil full of lead

Your ghost then vanishes into thin air
I’m left lying here like an inquisitive grizzly bear

I want to hunt for your honey to ease my hunger pains
I can smell you inside of me, feel you running through my veins

Blood Type LLP
Transfusion for MR RA Murray

My heart is your basket ball with you scoring the three points winner in overtime
All the way from the New York Nets 3465 line

I can’t wait to hold you 3465 metres later, pull you under the covers, be like the Twits talking ‘Roald Dahl’ romantic
And tell you just how far you’ve come from in metres across the Aurora Borealis and the Atlantic.

To LP
Ruaraidh Murray 23.03.15

2023

Would you like to go to Mars with me
And see what Earth looks like in 2023

We can take lots of coffee and teacakes
And pitch a tent up there on the dry lakes

There will be no cable TV
But I know a great game that involves pee

We can holiday on Jupiter in June
They say it has better weather than the Moon

We’ll return to work on Mars two weeks later
To write a sit-com set in a crater

It will star a German, Romanian
Who bites like a Transilvanian

And a Scottish caveman
Who desperately needs a sun tan

Would you like to go to Mars with me
I promise you’ll laugh till you’re 103.

To LP
Ruaraidh Murray 07.05.15

The Last Picture House In Nebraska

Your voice comes to me as my head hits the pillow
I laugh as I hear you say “…sleep well Pussy Willow”.

I fall deep down into a dream and find myself sitting in a cinema
And there you are next to me in the last picture house in Nebraska

We have the whole place to ourselves till dawn
With a movie list to go through from heaven

Preston Sturges works the projector
As the Marx Brothers serve us popcorn ‘n Nutella

We start with Disney and then move on to Peter Sellers’ Pink Panther
I suggest Pryor ‘n Wilder’s Stir Crazy and you top it with Murphy ‘n Martin’s Bowfinger

After the storm her hair was a mess
Everything was dirty except her favourite purple dress

Her sweet dreams were stuck in the nightmare of the storm
Her wicked alarm clock forbid her to remain under the covers, safe and warm

So she left the far off land of Astoria, where Victorian MTA trains and worn out tracks have forgotten how to get to
Got on a bus with her juiceless phone, looking for a lonely plug, while rummaging for her matchmaking cable to romantically connect the two

“All aboard, let’s go!” The New York original driver, from behind his shades, called out
The bus pulled away from the city as the girl waved goodbye and a bum gave out a shout

It’s getting ready for its first flight
Will it withstand the Atlantic’s might?

I won’t be bringing much in the way of belongings with me
The magic carpet doesn’t have a hold or overhead luggage space you see

It does fortunately have business class with extra leg room
It won’t hit icebergs like what brought the poor Titanic to its doom

On arrival in the East Village my magic carpet can be rolled up small
And into each other’s lovin arms we shall fall.

To LP
Ruaraidh Murray 21.10.17

Her Bonnie Face

The sailor’s cry is lost in the storm
He didn’t think he’d face such peril this morn

The low winter sun comes up briefly and shines bright
And so his mind and flickering thoughts take flight

She’s in his arms, they’re back under the covers safe in bed
He strokes her soft skin and laughs at something funny she says

There looking in her warm green eyes is where he always calls home
Apart, their hearts beat together even though they’re in a different time zone

But now here in this storm the ice cold water rushes in
His cries for help lost in the crashing waves thunderous din

His only thought is of his beautiful girl alone in that far flung magical place
His words not enough but his heart true until its last beat, he just wants to see her bonnie face.

To LP
I love you
Ruaraidh Murray 23.11.17

Cleopatra lives in the East Village

Did you know Cleopatra lives here in the East Village
Swapped the Nile for the East River and like a Viking is ready to pillage
She’s a character body snatcher, a clown of disguises a’ plenty
There’s Armel who’ll show you around town if you slip him a twenty
There’s Boris AKA Putin’s sperm who wants to impregnate Oprah to “make P-Oprah baby”
And Petra who’s panting after Benicio Del Toro, she’s the crazy Deutsch lady
Cleopatra of the East Village for sure has stolen my heart and soul
But who’s next for her mega laugh your ass off character assassination role?
Davie Willis who drives an LA Lift?
Trumps sperm who waits for Putin’s next “gift”?
Robert of City Hall who divorced De Nero?
Or Weinstein in a fat suit as he deflates to a size zero?
So does she get her cock out for a living?
It’s time for Cleopatra of the East Village to do her thing!

To LP
I love you
RAMurray
10.08.18

Cheesecake on Mars

I am out here in deep space
I was once part of the human race
I am way out here so far from home
I can just about see the twinkling lights of Rome
The man in the moon is over there to the left somewhere
Glad I brought my ladies Ray Bans to stop the sun’s teeth glare
They say back at the Griffith Observatory there’s no sound out here
But I can hear my heart beat ‘boom boom’, it’s loud and clear
It beats non-stop for another human being on the blue planet
She’s down there, in the land of giants, where the sun’s about to set
Houston? Houston? Houston, are you there? Tell her I miss her so
That it’s cold out here in space, too cold for snow
But tell her there’s one thing out here that’s still able to grow
My love for her as we shoot for the stars
Ask her if she fancies joining me for some cheesecake on Mars.